I don't wanna write anymore.
It feels heavy
the kind of weight you don't notice
until you try to put it down.
Each word I pen drips with something
I haven't named yet.
These lines unravel the past,
fragments of shadows I thought wouldn't last.
Each stanza a mirror.
Each mirror a cut.
The blank page stares.
It knows my soul better than I do -
a relentless murmur I cannot control.
The more I craft, the more I break.
A battle between the pen and my needs,
between letting it out and watching it bleed.
So I lay it down, this weary pen.
For now I'll rest.
Let the silence settle where the words used to be.
Because I don't wanna write anymore.
Not today.
Not like this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem